


Clean-up on Level Seven

by Altariel



Series: The Steward and the King [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 00:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15255408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: In Minas Tirith, a year after the Siege of Gondor.





	1. Dies irae

**Author's Note:**

> _“I, then, will go to heap the earth above the brother whom I love.” ___  
> Antigone
> 
>  _“Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are prerequisites both for the restoration of the social order and for the healing of individual victims.”_  
>  Judith Hernan, Trauma and Recovery

**Dies irae**

_Great trembling there will be_  
_when the Judge descends from heaven_  
_to examine all things closely._

***

Faelas has never even seen the City before, nor has she ever wanted to. Her people are from Lossarnach, tenant farmers of a great lord, happy in their quiet and pleasant vales. But she has come to the City now. She has come because times have been hard, despite the peace, with so many of the menfolk lost and her own family suffering more than most in this respect. She comes because her mother has died, free from grief at last, but with her death the money has stopped. She has come because she is in need, and because has a promise of aid. In her pocket, she carries a letter.

_In this most desperate hour, your brother’s valour was beyond measure._

In truth, this does not sound much like her brother, a big soft lad who always had to be reminded of the job at hand, but the seal on the letter is very grand, and the name at the bottom is even grander.

_Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of the High King and Prince of Ithilien._

Well, she said to herself, it’s not as if our lad even wanted to go with the soldiers in the first place. But who am I to refuse a hand like that held out in friendship?

It’s long past noon when she reaches the sixth level, and the way ahead is barred. The soldier there explains, in a kindly fashion, that the day’s business is done, and if she gets herself back early in the morning, that is when the Steward sees petitioners. But another soldier, hearing her accent, says, “Lossarnach, aye?” and winks, and takes her through. They walk along a dark passageway, and then out into a grand court. There’s a Fountain there, and a Tree. She’s heard of the Tree, of course; seen it on the soldiers. And here it is, such a pretty thing, green-budding, preparing for summer. She finds she’s a little sad not to see blossom.

Her friend from the Vale takes her into a big hall and she sits on a chair in a corridor while he taps on the door. A man comes out – tall, pale, grey-eyed and wearing black. He’s so young that it’s a moment before she realizes that this is the Steward himself.

She hands him the letter. He reads it, carefully, and hands it back. “Would you wait an hour?” he says to her. “Then we might speak privately.”

 _An hour_ , she thinks. _Aye, yes, I can wait an hour._ She’s led to a little room, where food and drink are brought to her. And he’s as good as his word. Soon enough he’s come to see her. He sits, and smiles, and listens.

“I am sorry to hear of the loss of your mother,” he says, when she finishes her tale. “And sorry also to hear that the pension has stopped. That shall be amended.” He reaches for pen and parchment, and quickly writes a note. He goes to the door and calls for a messenger. “There,” he says. “And you will find an extra payment to defray any debts arising from the delay. I must beg your pardon. We have been stretched thin here since the end of the War.”

“Aye, sir, I understand. This is good of you, sir,” she says. She’s moved by his kindness to open up to this grave young man. “But in truth, it’s not just about the money. What I want to know, sir, is how he died.”

“Sometimes,” he says, gently, “it’s better not to know too much.”

“Is that the case with my brother, sir?”

“He died at the Causeway Forts,” he says, and sighs. “A dark hour for Gondor.”

Yes, she thinks, she knows all that. But it’s no answer to her question. “With respect, sir,” she says, firmly, “that tells me very little of what happened. In my place, sir, would you wish to be kept in the dark about how your brother died?”

A shadow passes over his face. More sternly, he says, “There is little more that I can say.”

“Please, sir.”

He sits a while in silence, studying her carefully, as if to determine her character. She raises her chin. She is not afraid. “I remember your brother,” he says, at last. “He was injured, badly, when part of the wall came down. Those injuries are what caused his death.”

“Ah,” she says, a soft sigh of pain. “Our poor lad…”

“I am sorry,” he says. “Sorry to bear this news.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, I needed to know. Tell me, though, sir – did he suffer, in the end?”

He doesn’t reply.

“You were the commander there, weren’t you, sir?”

“Yes,” he says, reluctantly. “I commanded there.”

“So you’d be the one who knows?”

His eyes are dark and fathomless. She thinks, _Oh, I’m such a fool, there must have been so many young men…_ And then she sees something shift behind his eyes, and thinks again, _But you_ do _remember this one_ …

“I’ve told you all I’m able,” he says. He rises from his chair, and, with great courtesy, escorts her to the door.

Her friend from the Vale is waiting outside for her. “Did you get your answers?”

She looks back at the closed door. “I’m not so sure.” 

***

Lord of these grand halls he might now be, but a lifetime’s vigilance was a hard habit to break, and the sight of his Steward in quiet but forceful conversation with Lord Aldamir near the entrance to the Star Chamber was enough to make the King Elessar slow his pace and move into the cover of a sternly outsized statue of Eldacar dating from directly after the restoration.

Faramir, he observed, had the fingers of one hand pressed against his temple in a manner that the King was coming to think he saw too often. Aldamir, meanwhile, had his hand clasped about the younger man’s arm, a gesture at once avuncular and yet oddly demeaning.

“Yes, sir,” the Steward said, “I understand everything that you have been saying, but nevertheless—”

“But what troubles me most, Faramir, is my increasing sense that we here in the South are in danger of becoming valued for nothing more than our deep pockets.”

Aragorn watched a muscle in Faramir’s jaw twitch. “That is hardly an accurate rep—”

“Hand upon your heart, Faramir,” Aldamir said, “do you believe this is what your father would want?”

There was a brief pause during which the Steward’s fingertips pressed down a little harder, his eyes fluttered closed and open again, and the muscle in his jaw tightened further. When would they grasp, Aragorn wondered, that appealing to the memory of his father was not the surest route to the Steward’s favour? Or was this discomfort the intent? Coughing slightly, and making no particular attempt to sound as if he had been merely passing, Aragorn stepped out from the shadow of his reinstated predecessor.

“My lord, my lord Prince,” he said calmly, watching in fascination as Faramir’s expression, in the blink of an eye, transformed from tense-but-controlled to utterly blank. Aldamir, a man blessed with considerably less compunction than the Prince of Ithilien, greeted his liege-lord with great affability – enquiring warmly after the Queen, discussing the ongoing ceremonies to commemorate the ending of the War, and eventually bidding both men a cheerful and courteous good night.

Faramir, who had stood by silently throughout the exchange, remained still, but watched Aldamir until he left the Tower.

“Anything the matter, Faramir?”

“No,” said the Steward. He shook his head, abruptly. “No. The usual complaints. Nothing to trouble you, sire.”

“Aldamir has known you, I think, your entire life? As many of the Council must have.”

“Yes,” Faramir said stonily. “I am unusual amongst my peers in having survived my father.”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. As they walked upstairs, he marked the Steward’s clothes: black, with only a hint of silver at the throat and wrists, mourning. A year ago, to the day, he remembered, he had heard the horn of Gondor sound at Parth Galen.

***

Her friend from the Vale, Valar love and bless him, takes her under his wing. _Do you have a place to stay? No? Come with me, lass! There’s a place where a few of us lodge. We’ll find a bed for you there._

Faelas soon finds herself among good company, familiar tones of voice. They want to hear her tale, but when she tells there are dark looks all round.

 _Aye, the Forts,_ they say. _Dark days, dreadful days, and then the siege, and the old lord’s death._ Nobody knows half of what happened, it seems. _I heard he hanged himself from the Withered Tree. I heard he tried to stab the young lord then stabbed himself instead. Well, I heard that Wizard, Mithrandir, set the whole Silent Street alight..._ And someone else says, _Rubbish._

“All I want,” she says, “is to know what happened.” She takes out the letter, and they pass it round. _Best leave things alone,_ someone says. _Funny how long that letter is, mind_. _Long even by the Steward’s standards_.

 _I know someone who might help_ , says someone else. 


	2. Tuba mirum

**Tuba mirum**

_What shall a wretch like me say?_  
_Who shall intercede for me,  
_ _when the just ones need mercy?_

*** 

Faelas is woken by the sound of silver trumpets, heralding the dawn. Her new friend is coming to take to her to the man he thinks can help her. “He’s a fine lord,” he tells her. “Important too. A friend of the old Steward’s. If anyone can help, he can.”

But she’s tried a Steward already, and she’s not sure what someone else can do, lord or no. Still, when she’s brought before him – a handsome man, on the cusp of old age, dark hair turning silver – she’s tongue-tied, and she quickly bobs a curtsey.

“Faelas of Lossarnach, yes?” he says. “Something about a pension, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no, sir, not that—”

“Certainly this is an issue I’m keen to raise with the Council. There’s too much going out, you see, going North. Oh, we must do something about this, my dear child, it’s quite unfair that there is not money available for our own people—”

“Sir,” she insists, “it’s not about the pension.”

He frowns. “Not about a pension?”

“No, sir,” she says, and shows him her letter.

He reads it, carefully.

“I just want to know what happened.”

The Lord Aldamir folds up her letter, and he does not hand it back. “I think,” he says, “that we should speak to a friend of mine.”

The Lord Minardil reads her letter with great interest too. “Bad business,” he says. “And you really should be receiving your money—”

“But sir,” Faelas says, “it’s not about the money. It was never about the money—”

But the Lord Minardil is not listening. He takes her arm and escorts her out, promising he’ll come and find her as soon as he has news. The door closes. He still has her letter, she thinks. 

***

Aragorn, waiting for his Steward to join him, heard quick footsteps in the courtyard outside, and whispers, and then the voice of his Steward, raised. “My lord Minardil,” said Faramir, “we are by the grace of the Valar no longer living in fear of the Enemy’s spies discovering our most critical strategies. Perhaps therefore you might simply arrange to speak to me through my admirable secretary rather than sequestering me in corners? We have had enough secrecy over the years.”

A few words from Minardil that even his sharp ears could not catch, and then the Steward spoke again, concluding the conversation. “The King is waiting for me, sir. I must go.”

When at last Faramir arrived, Aragorn did not press him right away. They talked of other matters: of the monument to his father for which several of the older lords had been pressing; of the full Council that would be happening in May; of the policies they were planning to get through – not to mention the legal niceties arising from the unification of two kingdoms. At last, in a break in their discussion, Aragorn spoke.

“Wherever I turn over the past few days,” he said, leafing through papers, “I see you standing in corners speaking in urgent undertones with peers of the realm. A more untrusting man with a more unfriendly court would fear a plot—” He smiled up at his Steward and was startled to see that Faramir was unamused. “—but I am blessed in my choice of counsellors. Or, at least, a very good judge of character. Is there anything I should be worried about?”

Faramir shook his head. “No, no, nothing. A young woman from Lossarnach came to see me. She wanted information about her brother’s death – he died at the Causeway Forts. But her mother had recently died, and his pension had stopped. The matter’s resolved, but I believe Aldamir may be hoping to use her case to demand extensions of pensions to family members beyond mothers and wives and children. And I must say he has a good case!”

Aragorn nodded. “We should make funds available for this.”

“Not least so that he has fewer grounds for claiming that the people of the south kingdom are gaining nothing from unification, merely paying.”

“True,” said Aragorn. “So that is Aldamir taken care of. What about Minardil?”

Faramir’s face became unreadable. “Minardil?”

Aragorn jerked his head towards the open window.

“Ah.”

“He was close to your father, wasn’t he?”

“Nobody was close to my father,” muttered Faramir. “But Minardil, I think, believes that he has been too quickly forgotten.”

“And you, Faramir? What do you think?”

Faramir looked out of the window. “I think that their monument will be very fine.” 

***

Faelas sits at the inn with her new friends. Something has happened today that she does not understand. No, there’s no answers to her questions anywhere, it seems. You mention the Ford, or the Forts, or the Siege, and: _Bad business_ , they say, and can’t or won’t say more. _Best forgotten._

And as she sits, and ponders, the Lord Aldamir, acting on the Lord Minardil’s instruction, takes her letter from the Steward to the King.

  


	3. Rex tremendae

**Rex tremendae**

_King of tremendous majesty,_  
_who freely saves those worthy ones,  
_ _save me, source of mercy._

*** 

As soon as he saw the letter (the _length_ of it...!), Aragorn knew that he would have to speak to Faramir again. But first the King Elessar conducted a little private investigation of his own, sending for records from the public archives dating from the period between the investiture of the twenty-seventh ruling Steward of Gondor, and the coronation of the King of the West.

It made for enlightening reading.

Working backwards through the series of repeals that Faramir had enacted before surrendering his office, Aragorn was able to reconstruct an image of the South Kingdom in the last days of its decline. Impressment of men after the battle for the bridge (repealed). Powers of arrest and execution without trial for unauthorised travellers passing through Ithilien (repealed; and rejected too – in the Steward’s elegant hand – were drafts of similar laws intended to apply to the long piece of land that lay between the river and the road to Minas Tirith). One series of documents described how the ancient framework for trials and hearings was to be restored, such powers to be removed from military commanders and returned to local magistrates. (He had, on reflection, appointed a great number of them over the past year.)

Much of the work had been done within days of the Steward taking office, as if the plans had long been formed in his mind. And the very first law the Steward had seen fit to repeal was a military regulation that permitted, under certain circumstances, the mercying of men upon the battlefield.

The sun was setting. Aragorn leaned back in his chair and watched the sky bruise purple. He pressed his fingertips hard against the bridge of his nose. _Alas for Gondor_ , he thought, _caught between nobility and necessity. Dark days, and dark decisions – and always, always, the Enemy busy at His work, grinding down Gondor as once He whelmed Númenor._ From the other side of the door that separated their offices, he heard his Steward moving about, and an image came to him of Faramir, working late at night as the rest of the City slept – the last Ruling Steward of Gondor seizing this brief moment of absolute authority to place his mark upon the realm. By the time Elessar Telcontar was crowned, Gondor was already a different land.

Aragorn rose from his chair and went over to the door. Opening it, he leaned his head round. “Faramir,” he said. “A word, please.”

The Steward, ever obliging, put down his pen at once and followed his liege-lord into the other room. Aragorn gestured to the chair across from his desk, since Faramir did not tend to sit without his invitation. When the Steward was seated, Aragorn pushed the pile of papers across the desk. “A busy time,” he said, “your few short weeks as Ruling Steward.”

Faramir leafed through the pages and put them down again. “All a matter of public record.”

“Yes, indeed – hidden in plain sight.”

A frown briefly creased Faramir’s brows, but was not permitted to settle.

“How many?” Aragorn said. “At the Causeway Forts. How many?”

Very subtly, Faramir’s posture altered. He became... the only word for it was _rigid_. “At the Forts?”

“At the Forts. How many?”

Faramir swallowed. “Seven,” he said.

“Seven. I see. May I ask how?”

“‘How’? As in – how did the situation arise?”

“No, ‘how’ as in – what did you do?”

“What did I do? What do you think I—” Faramir cut himself off, and regrouped. “I cut their throats.”

“I see. Were you given consent?”

“Consent? I—” Faramir had gone very pale. “You understand, sire, that no law was broken?”

“Faramir—” he warned.

“Yes, I was given consent!” Rising, Faramir crossed the room to close the window. He came back to his chair, but did not sit down again, resting his hand on the wooden frame, and continuing in a much quieter voice. “The wains had come and gone. I knew there would be nothing more from the City... that was not a possibility. You must understand that these were men who would have died if we had tried to move them. Our best hope was that they would die before we had to leave. Hope, of course, was in short supply.” His hand was now very white, the bones showing through the flesh. “If you are asking me about Faelas’s brother, he was crushed when the walls were breached. He was the fourth that I... He was the fourth. He was in a great deal of pain, and sadly was not delirious. He asked me to be quick. I held his hand and... I held his hand, and it was very quick.” He halted, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded rather harsh. “Was there anything else that you wished to know?”

Aragorn did not reply.

“I am not proud of what I did—”

“No,” Aragorn said. “Yet, as you say, you were in violation of no law. I know when it was repealed, but tell me – when was it passed? Ecthelion, I think, would not have had it.”

Faramir’s grey eyes glittered. “With respect, sire, the war in these later days was very different from that which my grandsire fought.”

 _And that which Thorongil fought_ , Aragorn assumed was implied, and his eyebrows lifted. Never before had Faramir been this combative. “That does not answer my question, my lord.”

“Very well. After the battle for the bridge. Many were left on the eastern side.” Faramir’s features suddenly convulsed. His hand jerked up towards his face and his words came out thick. “I hope that never again will I hear—!” Once more, he stopped to gather himself. A little steel crept into his voice. “Am I to understand, sire, that I am being rebuked?”

“Faramir, by your own _hand_ you have been rebuked! Not only in repealing the law at the first opportunity, but in producing letters such as _this_ ,” he jabbed a finger at it, “six more of which are presumably waiting to fall into hands much less friendly even than those of the Lords Aldamir and Minardil!”

“Ah.” Faramir’s head went down.

“What do they know?”

“I would assume – the most significant details.”

“And what do they have to say about it?”

“Aldamir – nothing more to me, yet. Minardil,” he looked directly at the King, “has offered to protect me.”

“Protect you? From what, exactly?”

“I did not wait to hear.”

Aragorn rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he said, at last. “I must give this more thought. Aldamir wants concessions, clearly. Minardil wants me contained or, preferably, on my way north with no settled date of return, and I can think of several more on the council that would relish disunity between us.” He looked down at Faelas’s letter and sighed. “And this poor young woman simply wants to learn what happened to her brother. You will have to speak to her again.”

“Sir, what good can come of her knowing?”

“Faramir, her brother died not at the hands of the enemy, but at the hands of a lord of Gondor. What madness has consumed this city in our absence, to confuse murder with mercy? _Speak_ to her!”

The words were barely out of his mouth before they were regretted. Faramir stared at him like a man who had taken a knife in the gut. He masked his shock – swiftly, expertly – closing himself off again like a shuttered window or a heavily-defended fort.

The air was thick now with the horror of the Steward’s own near-miss with mercy, and with a comparison that, however inadvertently, should never had been made. Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but Faramir forestalled him. “I shall arrange a meeting at my earliest available opportunity. May I have your leave, sire?”

“Yes... Yes, of course you may.”

The Steward gave a quick bow that Aragorn thought commendable under the circumstances and strode out of the room. The door did not slam behind him. Aragorn – furious with himself, furious with both of them – cursed silently and fluently in four different tongues, as if the wave of words might overwrite what had been said. But the damage was done.

***

It did not take long for the rumour of a rift between King and Steward to pass like wildfire around all the levels the City. _I heard they quarrelled. I heard they exchanged angry words. I heard there was going to be a duel! My money’s on the young man. No, on the king – he has all those years of experience._

Faelas hears these tales as she sits waiting to hear back from the fine lords she met. She is beginning to think they have forgotten her. She is coming to loathe this City; its tales, and whispers; its poised and polished lords who all speak finely, but none of them plainly. Nobody, it seems, is willing to speak plainly.

 _Is there none here_ , she thinks, _who will tell me the truth?_  

***

The rumours too were rampant on the upper levels, passed among the courtiers as they gathered to hear the new songs written to mark the last days of the War. They walked into the Hall together, arm in arm, Elfstone and Evenstar, and took their seats. The Steward’s seat was conspicuously empty. He had sent a message apologising: he had been unavoidably detained. _Didn’t want to walk in with them_ , someone said, and that story went around. The King didn’t miss it; neither did the Queen. _Trouble?_ she asked. But the singers and players were entering, so Aragorn put his finger to his lips. The first notes sounded through the hall. A man’s voice and a woman’s voice, singing a hymn to Aurë and Yavanna. Their voices were pure and beautiful.

The next hymn was to Oromë. A horn sounded through the room, echoing the Valaroma, perhaps, or the great horns of the North. Men’s voices rose in stirring song. Yet even with the music at full blast and the singers at full throttle, there was still a ripple amongst those gathered in the Hall when the Steward arrived.

He stood waiting in the shadows until the hymn ended, the horns falling away, and then he slipped into his place, giving his King and Queen an unimpeachable bow. He settled into his seat. The music began again. A hymn to Ulmo, this time, a great crash of sound. Men’s voices again, chanting softly at first, then rising, rising, like great waves...

A fine piece, this, Aragorn thought, finely wrought and conceived. Its creator had written six hymns to the Alatar, the most exalted of the Valar – Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna, Aulë, Mandos, Oromë, and Nienna. _Songs for Dark Times_ , she had called it, when he had met her. She had seemed impossibly young to have made so fine a piece of art. Faramir had championed her work. Whatever had kept him away must have important. Speaking to the lass from Lossarnach, perhaps? Or was it as the rumour said, and he had not wanted to enter with the King?

Now a woman began to chant, a plea to Varda. After a little while, other women joined her, in a prayer of supplication to the Kindler.

 _Our prayers are not worthy_ (they sang),  
_but Ye, O Queen, show mercy,  
__lest we burn in everlasting fire…_

Aragorn, without moving his head, looked sideways, but Faramir’s hand was covering his face. That, he suspected, was about as public a display of grief as he would ever see, and one that could easily pass for no more than paying attention. The next hymn was to the brothers – Manwë and Mandos – King and Judge. Now the Steward stirred. From the corner of the eye, the King watched the other man’s expression shift from stony-still to something different. Something wholly new. _There,_ Aragorn thought. _At last. Not acquiescence. Anger._

Then the mood changed. A woman’s voice, lamenting. Nienna, She Who Weeps. And then, unexpectedly, another woman began to sing. Vairë, the Weaver, not counted among the Exalted, and yet, somehow her voice – here and now – was _right_ … The women’s voice – lament and consolation – wove together, and then all the chorus sang. _The Dark has passed. This is the Age of Peace_ , they sang. _The Age of Peace_. 

The last notes died away. Faramir got up and left. And the whispering picked up again, and passed down through all the levels of the City. 

***

Later, at the first opportunity, Aragorn left the gathering and went to his office. The Steward was waiting for him there, sitting in the half-light.

“Faramir,” he said, coming to join him. The Steward watched him come and did not stand. When Aragorn was seated, Faramir spoke.

“My father,” he said, “knew the secrets of every man in Gondor. Boromir and I would often joke at his uncanny insight. Alas that we were more correct in that judgement than we knew. But it gave him great power. None dared cross him. For fear of what might be revealed.” His hand fell open upon his lap. “I am tired of secrecy. To live in such a world… the thought wearies me. It is not the world that I desire.” He looked up at his king, a faint light stirring in his eyes. “I believe I know what has to be done, sire – if you are willing.”

Aragorn listened as his steward outlined his plan. When Faramir was done, he studied him thoughtfully. “You play for high stakes, lord Steward.”

“I play for two kingdoms, sire.”

Aragorn pondered for his words a while. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I cannot allow it. The injustice—”

“Aragorn.”

His Steward rarely called him by name. Always titles, always honorifics, always holding his new liege-lord at arm’s length. This was new. This was to be encouraged. Aragorn nodded, and Faramir continued.

“Thus far in life,” he said, “I have been accustomed to losing. Father, brother, yes… And more. As Captain-General, I was the commander that lost the Fords, the Forts, the Field, the City. But in this new Age, I intend to lose no more. I intend to win.”  

He leaned forwards in his chair, out of the shadows, and offered Aragorn his hand. “Will you play, sir? To win?”

 


	4. Recordare

**Recordare**

_Righteous judge of vengeance,_  
_grant me the gift of absolution  
_ _before the day of retribution._

*** 

The Lords of Minas Tirith, summoned to attend the King, obeyed, not all of them with good grace. Aragorn listened closely as they made their way into the council chamber. _What’s Minardil up to_? someone asked. _Some business about the Causeway Forts_ , he heard another say. _Is all this about that blessed monument?_ another asked. _No, no, about the retreat! What about the retreat? Can’t we leave all that behind us?_

Having read the room, Aragorn nodded to Faramir, who called the them to order. When all was quiet, Minardil raised his hand at once to speak.

“My lord Minardil,” the King said, calmly, “we have seen you. Before we hear you, however, there is a matter to which we must attend.” He turned to Faramir. “Ithilien,” said the King. “Please stand.”

Slowly, Faramir stood. He clasped his hands behind his back and awaited the King’s judgement.

“As you know, sir,” Aragorn said, “a matter has been brought to our attention concerning your conduct during the last hours of the defence of the Causeway Forts. As a result, we have learned that seven men died there not by the actions of the Enemy, but by your own hand. We know, my lord, that you broke no law. We know too that had we been King, this law would never have been made, and that, in repealing it, you yourself agree. Moreover – and most of all – we have the families of those who so died to consider, and they cry out for justice. Therefore, we must censure—”

_No!_ The cry went up around the room, which the King quickly quelled.

“— _must_ censure you for these acts. Let this be recorded.”

A pen scratched against parchment. When it was set down: “Please sit,” the King said, softly. Ithilien took his seat. He lifted his hand to press his fingertips against his eyes, and let out a breath, as if some hold upon him had been released.

Aragorn looked around, inviting response. Older men, most of them, sons dead on the field. Who would lead their houses when they were gone? _I am unusual amongst my peers in having survived my father_ , Faramir had said. Most of them here had known him as a boy. They were badly shaken by what they had just seen. Some of them were palpably upset; others ashamed. Aldamir opened his mouth to speak. He was as white as a stone monument. “Faramir—”

The Steward looked up sharply. “My lord,” he said, and then extended his address to each man sitting around the table. “My lords,” he said, “Lords of Gondor. Necessity drove us to all manner of terrible invention. But as lords of Gondor – nay, as _Númenoreans_ – we must not shirk judgement for the choices that we made in those dark days. By the grace of the Valar those days are gone. With the gift of life given us, let us take stock of all that happened, let us learn, and then let us close the book upon that Age. And may Nienna intercede for us at Mandos.”

Aragorn watched the faces of the men around the table. Some were still in shock; others had cast down their eyes. Others were nodding at Faramir’s words. They were unused, he knew, to hearing the second son speak so freely, had been used to seeing him give way to his father, watching him acquiesce. Perhaps that was why some of them had misread him so badly. That, along with much else, was going to change.

“So,” said the King. “Can we now consider this matter closed?”

Minardil leaned forwards. _Surely not!_ But before he could speak, Aldamir placed his hand upon his arm. “Let it drop, sir!” he hissed. “Let it _drop_!” He spoke then to Aragorn – but he was looking at Faramir. “Yes, sire,” he said. “This matter is closed.”

“Good. Let us move forwards. Faramir, did you have any suggestions?”

“Yes,” said Faramir, briskly, the Steward once more. “A full examination of our statutes is in order. There might be other laws that we wish to reconsider in the light of our changed circumstances.”

“Might we look towards the statutes of Arnor?” said Húrin of the Keys, who had been tasked to say such at this juncture. “There might be much to learn from our Northern brethren on proper conduct under duress.”

The Council took the point – and the rebuke. They began to discuss. Within the half-hour, a committee had been formed, with Húrin to head and Aldamir to second, to report back by _yáviérë_. Minardil, Aragorn saw, was silent, sidelined. And there they had it – their win. _High stakes indeed_ , Aragorn thought, and caught Faramir’s eye.

_Thank you_ , said the King of the West.

_King’s servant_ , the Steward of Gondor replied.


	5. Confutatis

**Confutatis**

_When the accused are confounded,_  
_and doomed to flames of woe,  
_ _call me among the blessed._

*** 

Since most of the White Tower was eavesdropping upon the conversation taking place between the Lord Aldamir and the Prince of Ithilien, the King of Gondor and Arnor felt no particular compunction about spying on the exchange either. He pushed the window open wide, leaned back in his chair, and listened to their voices drifting upwards from the courtyard.

Or, rather, one voice, since Aldamir was not permitted the opportunity to speak.

“You have pursued the matter with a single-mindedness that my father would have envied! And to what end? Was that sight earlier what you desired?”

“Faramir, dear boy, I must assure you, I had _no_ intention—”

“And yet despite your intention, you have done me – and the memory of those of my family who are no longer here – a great disservice. _Censured_ , sir! Before my peers! You loved my father, and were loyal to him, I know that – but, with your hand upon your heart, can you tell me that is this the best service you could have done his memory?”

“Faramir, you were not my target—”

“Target? Who, then, exactly, was your target? The King? When will you understand, my lord – when will all of you understand! – that if you set your sights upon the King, you set them upon me? If your target is the North, you strike at the South. We are the Reunited Kingdom! North, South – there is no difference! If you aim for Elessar, you shoot through me.” There was a pause. “I sincerely hope this is the last time that we must have this conversation. You were a good friend to my father during his Stewardship. I hope from henceforth you will be as good a friend to me during mine. Good day, my lord.”

Aragorn remained in his chair, his head back, his hands folded upon his chest. He pictured the Steward heading off at full pace – up the steps to the Tower (two at a time); striding down the wide white corridor that ran alongside the Hall as people jumped out of his way and pretended to be busy; up the fourteen steps to the first floor (again, two at a time), and then back along the corridor to the sanctuary of his office.

The main door to the adjacent room slammed thunderously shut. Aragorn counted to twelve and twelve again, then eased himself out of his chair and went through.

Faramir was spread out along a low couch by the window. One arm was slung across his face, the other hung slackly at his side. Aragorn closed the door behind him and Faramir, hearing the click of the latch, shifted his arm upwards so that his hand came to rest upon the top of his head. Steward and King studied each other for a few long moments. Then, with a swift and economical movement, Faramir swung round into a sitting position.

“Satisfied?” asked the King.

“Yes,” the Steward replied.

Aragorn looked round for somewhere to sit. There was an armchair nearby, piled high with books, papers, and other assorted documents, with a large black stone of uncertain origin resting on top as a paperweight. He gathered this all up in his arms and dumped it on the floor. Faramir watched as he settled down in the chair.

“Mind if I smoke in here?”

Faramir opened his palm to grant permission. “It’s not as if the door makes any difference.”

Aragorn took out his pipe, filled it, and lit it. Faramir, slumped back now with his head propped up against one hand, watched the ritual with passing interest, twisting a piece of dark hair between his fingers. “In all those long years, Aragorn,” he said, “did you never have occasion to take some action which you now regret?”

The gentlest of rebukes. Aragorn thought of Éowyn at Dunharrow, desperate in her distress. Certainly he regretted that – but disaster had been averted there; and, besides, it would be wrong to raise that subject with this man. He breathed in a little smoke and, from out of the dimming past, a voice came to him, pleading in hisses and whispers: _It hurtsss us...Don’t hurt usss, pleassse... We begsss, yessss, we begssss..._

_I was not gentle_. 

“Of c—” he began, but his voice caught in his throat, and he coughed to cover himself. “Of course I did. Of course.”


	6. Lacrimosa

**Lacrimosa**  

_That day of tears and mourning,_  
_when from the ashes shall arise,  
_ _all humanity to be judged._

_Spare us by your mercy, Lord.  
_ _Grant them eternal rest. Amen._

*** 

 _Outrageous_ , said the people of the City when the news spread down through the streets and the circles. _The Lord Faramir, our Captain, defender of the City! What’s Elessar thinking...?_ _Ah, no,_ some said, _Not Elessar! It was those blasted old men on the Council, tried to corner him and left the King with no alternative... Disgraceful_ , others said, _not as if he broke any law – and I’d want the same done for me and mine... We need some new blood on that Council_ , others muttered, _not those old crows from Denethor’s day. Didn’t see any of them out there at the Forts, now did we…?_

So said the people of Minas Tirith. While, at the Forts, a man from the city and a woman from the vales stood upon the battlements, and watched the pale spring sun shine down upon the field. And the birds sang, and the new flowers budded, and the workmen busied at the task of reconstruction. Earlier, he had taken her down into the surgery, and described to her what had happened there, and she had cried a little, and then said her goodbye.

He leads her then to the memorial on the wall of the forts. A list of all the dead, from the Battle for Osgiliath onwards, ordered by fiefdom and rank. She has enough letters to recognise the first names: 

MINAS TIRITH:  
Denethor II, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Twenty-Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor  
Boromir, son of Denethor, High Warden of the White Tower, Captain-General of Gondor

But she cannot see _her_ brother, so he helps her read the words, and together they find LOSSARNACH, and then him, in the list beneath their lord, Forlong. She cries a little more. His fingers linger over names set below ITHILIEN. At last, they turn away and go back into the Forts.

Faramir stands, his back to the wall, and looks towards the White City. “After this place was lost,” he says, “I had to bring my men back safely across the Pelennor to the City. That took... some time, and, at the end, right before the Gate, I was struck by an arrow and was near death. My father – seeing his City surrounded and believing all to be lost – built a pyre amidst the tombs of our forebears, upon which he tried to burn us both. Prevented in that, he tried to knife me. Again prevented, he took his own life and I was instead brought to the Houses of Healing where, in time, I became well again. Mercy,” he says, dully. “My father’s mercy.”

As he speaks, Faelas remembers her own father, a decent and uncomplicated man. “Ah me!” she says, when his tale is told. “The rich _are_ different!”

“Faelas – do you wish I had been prevented, as my father was, twice over?”

“Do I wish that? Mostly I wish my brother had never gone to war; no – I wish there’d been no dreadful war at all. But what’s the use of wishing for such things? Besides,” she gives him a canny look, “that’s not what you’re really asking me, is it?”

“No. No, it isn’t...” His voice softens, almost to a plea. “Did I do the right thing?”

“Oh now,” she says, sympathetic, but shaking her head, “you know I can’t answer that for you! But the more I think about it, the more it seems to me we were all trapped in a great spider’s web, and whatever we did, there was always going to be some harm. Like when they came to press the lads into service and mother and I hid some of them in the barn. We broke the law then, didn’t we? I didn’t care much for that law, but maybe if one of those boys had gone, he might have been standing next him when those stones started falling, and he might have pulled him away, and then my brother might have come home after all. I don’t know whether you did the right thing or not. But I think the times made it hard to tell what was right and what was wrong. Better times, now, I hope, for all of us.”

“Yes,” Faramir says, “I hope that too.”

“Oh, but I wish you’d told me,” she cries, “when I asked! Right back when I first came to you! You should have told me!”

“Yes, I should.”

“It would have saved a lot of trouble.”

A slow tired smile creeps across his face. “Yes,” he says. “Yes it would.”

“Well, that’s done,” she says, “and can’t be undone, no matter how we wish it could, like so much else in this life. But you and I, now – we must carry on, I think, as best we can.”

Reaching out, she takes his hand, and leads him down the steps. High above the walls, larks are singing. Hand in hand, they go back to the road, back to the altered world, back to the jubilant trials of living.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea that Faramir mercied men at the Causeway Forts comes from Isabeau’s marvellous story [Captain, My Captain](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/556538/1/Captain_My_Captain). 
> 
> Thank you to Rian Steelsheen, for our lengthy, challenging, and thoroughly enjoyable correspondence about the extent to which Denethor should be judged for the pyre, which was the inspiration for this story. 
> 
> The section headings are from the mediaeval Latin hymn Dies Irae, which describes the jollifications of Judgement Day, when the last trumpet will sound to summon souls before the throne of God for either deliverance or eternal damnation. The hymn was used in the Roman Catholic Requiem Mass until the 1960s, and is familiar from musical settings such as Mozart’s Requiem. 
> 
> Faelas = ‘mercy’, in David Salo’s extension of Sindarin. 
> 
> _Altariel, 2-10 September 2011; 11 July 2018._


End file.
